


Glaciers and Honest Men

by miasmatrix



Series: Honest Men [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Fluff, Fluff, Forgiveness, Gen, Mentions of Suicide, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Holmes and Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:48:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatrix/pseuds/miasmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to "Of Ghosts and Honest Men", set in Switzerland. John and Sherlock receive a package that leads them on a chase to Switzerland where accounts need to be settled and terrorist attacks need to be stopped.</p><p>I started this before season three and couldn't really post it for obvious reasons: It's post-Reichenbach, and I feel like I missed the S3-train and am still stuck at the train station, reading last year's time tables. At least until I can do something about S3, that's how it's going to be I guess. But anyway, here it is. Just a story about coming back and learning to cope, with crime and snow thrown in.</p><p>(And I took certain liberties with Switzerland and the Alps in general. Sorry about that. Love you all.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"We need to leave. Now." John sounded urgent, and I couldn't blame him. Even though I kept my head low and my eyes on the dig site, I knew weather was coming. The wind had grown from a pleasant breeze to a gale and now tore angrily at the canvas of the little tent. A storm was coming. A storm in the mountains, at the top of a glacier, was nothing but bad news. I flashed my teeth and dug harder. "Anne. We need to leave."  
"Almost got it."  
"It's too late! Let's go!"  
"Give us a minute", Sherlock wheezed, winded from the altitude and the digging. Glacier ice can be hard like stone, we wouldn't have had a chance there. But whoever had closed the hole had filled it with water and let if freeze. Still, we'd dug for over an hour to uncover what we thought we needed. I looked up briefly and found him doing the same, our eyes met, and I saw my own concern and fervour mirrored below sweat-soaked hair. Sweat soaked us both, cooling rapidly where it pooled, but we kept digging.

But let's start at the beginning, shall we?

 

The second time I met Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, it wasn't because I had sought them out (they had been instrumental in finding the source of a haunting at my house which turned out to be a love-sick colleague of mine). Instead, they'd come all the way from London to my little village in southern Germany to consult with me. I cannot describe the astonishment when I answered the door that gloomy December Sunday afternoon and found a familiar, lanky figure who immediately pushed past me and inside the house, followed by the friendlier and vastly more polite Dr. Watson, who beamed up at me and said: "I'm sorry, Anne. You know how he is. May we come in?" Mute in astonishment, I opened the door wider in response.

While Sherlock roamed the house like a friendly, but slightly autistic Border Collie, I prepared coffee and laid the coffee table for the three of us. I hadn't seen them in several months, and back then only briefly, but John was the kind of person you start off with just where you stopped. One eye on Sherlock, he poured us coffee and pretended not to eye the cookies I had found in the bottom drawer too suspiciously. "So, Anne, how have you been?"  
"It's obvious, John", came the reply from the kitchen, as I knew it would. "She's been busy at work, and she bought better locks. I'd wager Dr. Mergenström's advances weren't exactly welcome. She still likes to play the piano and favours sad soundtracks, which is perfectly obvious from the sheets on her piano. Still grieving, I would assume, aggravated by the weather, most likely. You did not take that vacation you had almost booked, Anne... Why didn't you? Something wasn't quite right with it, what was it... Ah. Yes. Of course. Your cat had her teeth removed, and you didn't want to leave her alone because she needed an analgesic every morning. Turning into a crazy cat lady, are you? Nah. Far too busy at work..."

Sherlock's monologue faded away in the distance while he checked the upper floor, and John and I exchanged glances over a cup of coffee. "You heard him", I said lightly.  
"That's Sherlock", he said, "Eliminating the need for small talk. So, Anne, how have you been?"  
I had to laugh. "Good! I bought better locks to keep my suitor out. Have been busy at work, and my cat had her teeth removed. How about you? I suspect this isn't a courtesy visit."  
"Don't tell her about the case yet", came Sherlock's voice from the upper floor, and Sherlock emerged from the staircase, my cat in his arms.  
"You heard him", said John, smiling tiredly.

I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but even I noticed the small case John had brought with them. It looked like a cooler, and after Sherlock had finished the inspection of my home and settled down on the sofa, my toothless cat content on his lap, John opened the case to reveal a refrigeration pack holding a clump of snow or ice. Sherlock looked at me expectantly. I looked back at him suspiciously. Finally, I said: "So?"  
"Well", Sherlock said, "Obviously, as we've come to the leading expert on ice age remnant flora with a clump of ice, we'd like your opinion on this clump of ice. Or rather, the plant matter inside."  
"Why?"  
"Excellent question, but I'd rather not answer it at this point. The answer might disturb you and cloud your judgement."  
"And... you think that hinting at a disturbing answer isn't going to cloud my judgement?"  
"Less so than the actual answer."  
His gaze had been locked on mine ever since producing the little clump of ice, his eyes inscrutable, his long fingers trailing through my cat's fur. She purred loudly, probably thinking of similar hands petting her, back when my husband had still been alive. For a while, that was the only sound in the room.  
"Let me get my microscope", I heard myself say.  
"Fantastic", said Sherlock. "Scientist researches. John, call the tabloids."  
"Behave", warned John.  
"Don't bother to fetch your microscope", Sherlock said lightly, concentrating on my cat's left ear, "I set it up for you in your study. I'll be right here with your toothless friend."  
My cat winked at me, stretched out langurously under Sherlock's clever fingers, and I winked back, and then nodded at John, who tried to vanish through the upholstery of my favourite chair.

The sample turned out to be only moderately interesting. I'm an expert on ice age flora and am often called to neolithic dig sites to determine the age of a certain ancient dwelling or burial site. This was similar, a bit of snow-turned-ice from a glacier with plant material embedded in it. The composition was like a finger print, and I quickly found where this was from: a glacier in Switzerland. With that, I returned to my living room and found the scene basically unchanged.  
"Was that a test?" I asked.  
"Would you have passed it if it was a test?"  
"I'd rather if this was a favour."  
"Then it's that. Yes. A favour."  
"Sherlock", John warned. "She's a friend, not a client."  
"Nah, let him", I told John.  
"Actually, right now, _we_ are the clients", John said.  
"Anne here is bored half to death", Sherlock said. "She enjoys a challenge."  
"Sherlock Holmes, expert on female behaviour. That I'd see the day."  
"John. Please. An inquisitive mind isn't gender specific, neither is boredom. You don't have to have an international reputation to know that."  
My cat chose that moment to slink off his lap and vacate the premises. Sherlock looked faintly heartbroken, and I considered getting more coffee. Tea. Water. Anything, really.  
"Did you find anything?" John asked, voice strained from the effort of keeping his friend (and himself) in check.  
"Yes, indeed I did", I said. "But if you want to know what I found, I need to know why you're here."  
"What can you deduce about this?" said Sherlock, playful challenge in his voice.  
I thought for a moment, then grinned. "Well. I'm not the only expert on ice age flora. Indeed, one of my professors still teaches at Oxford. If you only needed an opinion, you could have gone to him. In fact, a lab tech could have made that analysis for you or sent it to a lab that's better equipped and would give you something that holds up in court. But you came here. Either you don't want to go through the official channels, or this has something to do with me. Or you knew the sample is from Switzerland and you wanted to get closer to the source on the way."  
"Switzerland", Sherlock said. "I didn't think it was Switzerland. Why Switzerland? Are you sure?"  
"That rules out option three", I said lightly.  
"It does, doesn't it. Come on, John, off to Switzerland!"

Sherlock jumped off the sofa and darted down the hall. When the door slammed, I looked at John. He shook his head and poured himself another cup of coffee. "So, John, tell me, how's work?" I asked, and when the doorbell rang, neither of us was in a hurry to let Sherlock back in.

 

"I'm sorry to inconvenience you like this", John said, stepping from foot to foot behind me while I prepared the guest room.  
"It's no inconvenience, John. You're friends. I like to have friends over."  
"Having friends over who insult you, rummage around in your house, turn your life upside down and ask you to come with them to Switzerland right now?"  
"Well, when you put it that way, it doesn't sound too attractive. I wonder why I put up with the two of you."  
"Anne, I..."  
"Just messing with you." I pressed a pillow on him to give him something to do. "I never asked. I probably shouldn't. But - do you need two rooms?"  
John's face was carefully neutral, bespeaking of long practise. "If it's not too much trouble, I'd greatly prefer my own room."  
"Don't worry", I nodded. "If there's one thing I have ample of, it's floor space."

 

One thing I like about having friends over is that it gives me an excuse to cook. I rarely ever cook on my own, but I enjoy cooking greatly. And so we sat at the dinner table, enjoying roast chicken with potatoes and salad and a glass of wine. That is, Sherlock ate very little - he mainly shared his chicken with my cat, who had decided he was her best friend after all.  
"Who's going to take care of her?" Sherlock asked. "While you're helping us."  
"My neighbour. She's nice. Oh, have we already decided I'm helping you?"  
"Aren't you?" Sherlock sounded genuinely puzzled.  
"Yeah, well, I guess I will", I admitted. "I'll have to call in tomorrow morning to take off from work."  
"No need", Sherlock said. "I've already taken care of that for you."  
I nodded. "Figures. Do I even want to know...?"  
He smiled at me like he thought he was the cleverest human in the world. I smiled back.  
"No", he said. "You don't. You're helping the Scotland Yard with a top secret investigation."  
"Right."  
"You do."  
"What is this about, exactly? The clump of glacier ice. Where did you get that from? No, don't tell me. Let me play the game."  
I sat back, looking at John, who studied a piece of wine stone in his glass, and Sherlock, who studied me. Then at the cooler that still sat on my kitchen table. Its precious cargo we had transferred into the freezer.  
"Ice. From Switzerland. In London. You brought it with you on the plane, the cabin luggage sticker is still on it. Where was it before it was on the plane? The surface was glassy, it had started to melt and had then be refrozen. Sat on your doorstep, right? John, you probably found it and put it into the freezer. And then, after you decided what to do with it, you put it into that cooler and came here. That's not a professional cooler, we'd definitely use a proper Dewar. That's from your very own kitchen. You packaged it yourself. Someone sent it to your house? But why? To send a message. To warn you. Or to play a game with you."  
Sherlock's reaction was immediate - he up, dropping the napkin, grabbed my shoulders and spun me around and off the chair. "Excellent! Brilliant! I knew she'd save us so much time! John! I told you!"  
"Yes, you did. Now sit down and behave."  
"I can never tell if you're genuinely happy or mocking me", I said.  
"Does it make a difference?"  
"Yes, it does!"  
"Oh."  
"Sherlock", John warned.  
"Guys", I decided to change the topic, "I hate to burst your bubble, but it is winter, and it is cold outside, and the place the chunk of ice is from is pretty far up. We'll have to hike. Possibly stay a night or two. Are you equipped for that?"  
"Of course we are", Sherlock said with an absent-mindedness that didn't exactly put my mind at ease. I looked at John.  
"Tent, mats, bags, cooker, food, warm clothing, snow shoes, ice axes, ropes, and spikes. And yes. I know how to use all that", John said. Of course. You do forget he used to be a soldier.


	2. Chapter 2

Driving with the two of them proved more bearable than I had thought it would. Sherlock lounged in the back of my Toyota, typing furiously on his mobile phone, while John tried to conceal his white-knuckled fear as we ploughed on south over the autobahn.  
"Is it always like this?"  
"Like what?"  
"Like - this", John said, letting go of the seat long enough to point at the crowded autobahn. We were just south of Nürnberg, almost at Ingolstadt.  
"You mean, always this crowded?"  
"Always this suicidal."  
"Oh." I looked into the rear view mirror just in time to see an Audi TT rush up and pass us without even bothering to set the indicator. "Yes, it's always like that."  
"How can you stand it?"  
I thought about it for a moment. "You don't really notice until you drive somewhere else."  
"Oh."  
"We'll pass into Austria soon. It gets better from there."

It turned out it did get better far sooner than that. München always surrounds itself with a halo of traffic jams. John passed tea and cookies around.  
"How come you aren't remarried yet?" Sherlock asked over a handful of cookies.  
"What?"  
"Sorry", said John.  
"It's a valid question. You're not even forty yet. You're facing a long life on your own if you never remarry."  
"Do you think women need to be married to thrive?"  
"On the contrary. You're doing very well", said Sherlock. "But I do know it's nice not to be alone."  
I felt John stiffen next to me and concentrated on the road.  
"I'm not alone."  
Sherlock snorted.  
"What!"  
"Before we came here, I checked your internet history. You shouldn't use homonyms for your social media. It's too transparent. You post at all times. You are alone."  
The ache that elicited was familiar, and I was very adept at swallowing it and relaxing around it. The cars in front of me advanced, and I put the Toyota in gear and closed the gap.  
"You know, Sherlock", I said, "When we met, my husband and I, I knew right away he was the one for me. The one I wanted to spend my life with. I knew right away. And when he died, it was like losing a part of my soul. Like someone had torn a chunk of my soul away, and I still haven't healed around it. Finding someone who can replace him is-" I stopped, suddenly desperate for air. There wasn't enough oxygen in the car anymore, and I recognized the half gasp, half yawn as a sign of the distress I didn't allow myself to feel. John looked at me, stricken. "Some people cannot be replaced", I managed. "So there."  
With that, I turned on the radio, and for the next half an hour we listened to German radio and myself, trying to get my breathing under control. 

"You know, I died", Sherlock said, totally out of the blue, when the traffic jam had unjammed itself and we were once more in free fall towards the Alps while BMW-shaped asteroids passed us by.  
"You did?" Frankly, I wasn't in the mood to play Sherlock's games. John made a point of looking out of the window.  
"I had to. You might have heard of a criminal mastermind called Moriarty."  
"Who hasn't."  
"He had snipers in place and threatened to kill my friends. John among them. I had to die in order to save them, and thus I faked my suicide. I jumped off a building in front of John."  
A few kilometres passed while I digested that.  
"You jumped off a building in front of your best friend."  
"Well, when I say I jumped off a building..."  
"In front of John. He thought you'd died."  
"Essentially yes."  
I glanced at the back of John's head.  
"Has he ever forgiven you?"  
"I like to think he did."  
The Alps grew larger ahead of us while I thought about that.  
"If your husband came back, would you take him back?"  
"Without hesitation", I said. "No questions asked."  
"He's not my husband", John said, voice rough. "And your husband didn't kill himself."  
My fingers clenched around the steering wheel. "As a matter of fact, he did."  
John turned to face me, I saw that out of the corner of my eye. But I concentrated on the road.  
"Oh Anne. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to - I didn't know -"  
"It's okay."  
In the back seat, Sherlock snorted. And I, I took the next parking lot exit, jumped out of the car and screamed.

 

"I'm really, really sorry", John said.  
I couldn't answer. I was too busy dry-heaving in a remote corner of an autobahn parking lot, trying not to think about the stench of urine because that would push me over the edge. John rubbed my back, back and forth, slowly, out of synch with the retching.  
"You're not going to throw up."  
"Not - so sure. About that."  
"Come on. Let's sit down."  
"Nah. Let me just..."  
My hands on my knees, I breathed in and out a few more times, and John was right, I didn't have to throw up. My eyes burned with tears, but I didn't throw up.  
"Have you?" I asked.  
"Forgiven him? No." There was a smile in John's words. "But, as you said. No questions asked."  
Slowly, I straightened myself. I'm taller than John, almost as tall as Sherlock. But he always managed to look bigger and stronger than he was.  
"He's unbearable."  
John laughed at that. I wiped my eyes.  
"Yes. He's that." His hand on my shoulder, he looked at me inquiringly. "You okay? Can you drive?"  
"Yeah. Yes. I can drive."

 

The parking lot was almost empty when we arrived. The day had worn on, and although we had started out early, we hadn't much daylight left. It attested to the urgency of our undertaking that we set out immediately anyway. Though, to be honest, I still had no idea why I was there, and in the glum silence in the car, I hadn't insisted on an answer. I thought it entirely possible that Sherlock had planned it like this, but in the thin mountain air, I didn't even care.


	3. Chapter 3

I love the mountains. I love the sea as well, but there's something about the cold and the altitude and the exertion that clears my head and calms me. Just one breath, and I knew I stood up straighter. There's also something about burdening yourself with ten or twenty kilograms of equipment that's strangely satisfying. We gathered the backpacks and set out.

 

"This isn't right", Sherlock said. It had been a long time since any of us had spoken, and he startled me. His voice disrupted the familiar, comforting rhythm of breath and step.  
"What isn't, Sherlock?" John was a saint.  
"Why lead us here?"  
"You think about that now?"  
"I think about that all the time."  
"And what do you think?"  
"I don't know yet. Whoever it is, he knows the mountains. He knew we'd come here. He knew we'd bring her."  
"It's obviously a trap. But you knew that."  
"Obviously."  
"But we won't know who set it up if we don't spring it."  
"And see what comes out to check the trap. Right."  
I snorted. "You two should get married. There's no telling where one of you ends and the other begins."  
Sherlock chuckled. "So, Anne, what do you think? If this is a trap, who set it up? And why?"  
"Is it a trap? Well, it must be. Someone sent you a clump of ice, expecting you to follow the lead. Leading you here. I won't insult you by asking if you have any enemies. But - do you know anyone who has a strong preference for ice and mountains?"  
"You mean, apart from you?" Sherlock asked.  
"I didn't send you the ice..."  
"No, we checked, you didn't."  
"...and besides, I like you. Then who did?"  
"I guess we'll find out."  
I paused, the other two closing up on me. The glacier lay in front of us, but we were only on the foot of the immense ice flow. Another 20 kilometres to go until we found the youngest ice where I knew the sample had been taken. It was already fully dark, had been for a while, and only the moon and the snow allowed us to navigate. Here, at the bottom of the glacier, where tourists would unpack their lunches in summer, was a good place to set up tents, flat and even. "We should set up camp here."

 

Setting up camp is probably my favourite activity. Converting a piece of wilderness into a home is a baffling experience. My equipment is simple, really, and I'm not very susceptible to cold. Setting up my tent didn't take me much longer than inflating my mat and shaking out my sleeping bag - it's a small coffin-like structure, a reliable, small solo tent that's perfect for the winter. Flat on the ground so it doesn't tip over in a storm, and so small it warms up easily. The boys had chosen a more spacious tent, and I had the cooker going when they had finally set up theirs.  
"Smells delicious", Sherlock said when he plopped down on the mat next to me. "What is it?"  
"A failed attempt at conversation", I said. "I'm melting snow this very moment."  
John laughed, and I couldn't help myself, I chuckled. He sat down next to me, and for a moment, it felt like any other hiking trip.  
"But seriously", John said, "What are we having? I brought several dehydrated meals."  
"There's a traditional dish I want you to eat today to honour the dead. And the not so dead. A dish we always ate on the first night out. Will you join me?"  
"I'd be honoured", John said. Sherlock nodded.  
I produced several square packs with garish lettering. "Ramen noodles!"  
Several "ew"s and "oh no"s later, we all sat around a pot of ramen noodles (spiced up with salted peanuts and beef jerky), nursing cups of hot tea, and watched the noodle-like structures unfold, and as always when you're waiting for ramen noodles to cook, we smiled, and it felt good. It felt like friends, and pack, and home.

 

I couldn't fall asleep that night. The reason for that wasn't the thin air, nor the cold, nor the prospect of a trap at the end of our journey. Nor was it the conversations we had had that day. It was John and Sherlock talking. And I tried not to listen. Really, I did. But when all else fails, when you stopper your ears and drag your cap down and close your sleeping bag's hood until you think you suffocate, and you still hear your neighbors talk, you know you should have set up your tent much, much further away. Tent walls give an impression of privacy that just isn't there.

 "I'm not sure about that."  
"We had to bring her."  
"She's unstable, Sherlock."  
"She's as unstable as you: Not at all."  
"She had a nervous breakdown today."  
"Name three people who haven't had a nervous breakdown around me yet."  
John was silent for a while, then he said: "Point taken."  
"I rest my case."  
"Wait, are you proud of that? Ah, I knew it. But still. You're putting her in harm's way."  
"I'm putting you in harm's way as well."  
"I volunteered."  
"So did she."  
"You have a strange definition of volunteering."  
"Let's go over there and ask her then."  
"Sherlock! No! Let her sleep."

They were silent for a while. Then Sherlock asked: "Have you forgiven me?"  
John was silent for so long that I thought he'd fallen asleep. Or deliberately overheard.  
"No. I haven't."  
"You know it was necessary."  
"So you keep telling me."  
The silence that followed was as thick as slush.  
"John, you heard what she said. If she could, she'd take him back. No questions asked."  
"She's talking about her husband, Sherlock. There's no taking back when you and I are concerned. Taking back what exactly?"  
"But tell me, how are we different? We live together, we go hiking together, we-"  
"It is different."  
"You do realize there are probably millions upon millions of sexless marriages out there, John."  
"Your point being?"  
"Anne and her husband had separate bedrooms. What does that tell you about her marriage?"  
"Nothing."  
"Exactly! So how can we-"  
"I refuse to-"

That was the point I couldn't pretend any more. I seriously doubted I'd ever be able to look any of them in the eye if I heard one more word. So I unzipped my tent and shouted (though they would have heard a whisper, and unzippering was just a fancy way of clearing my throat): "You guys do realize I can hear every word?"  
John chuckled, exasperated. Sherlock fell silent. Then he said: "Anne, if you had a chance to tell your husband one thing, what would you tell him?"  
That was easy. And no secret. It was on my blog. "I'd tell him that I love him."  
"So if he came back from the dead today, that's what you would tell him."  
I stared up at the wall of my tent, not even an arm's length above me. This was ridiculous. Solving relationship problems in a tent out here with two Englishmen. But that's what hiking does to you, I guess. Or maybe it was Sherlock. I don't know. I peeled myself out of my sleeping bag, grabbed my mat and bag, and marched over to the boys' tent.  
"Open up."  
"This is the boys' tent", Sherlock said. "You're being indecent."  
"You haven't seen me indecent yet, but you will tomorrow morning", I promised, unzipping the flap, then plopping down in the middle. The tent was a regular two person tent, big enough for a third in a pinch. I'd slept worse. I wriggled into the bag and lay down. Sherlock was all wide-eyed annoyance, a skittish presence pressed into the wall of the tent (where he would probably freeze to the wall in the morning). John, on the other hand, smiled, said "Good night" and turned to the wall, his butt pressing into my hip with the familiarity of long experience. You do forget he used to be a soldier.

I dreamt of a volcanic island that night. Of flying over it, seeing every detail with absolute clarity. Of rain forest in the west, and barren landscape in the east, and the dividing mountains in the middle. I flew high above it, elated, free, then stooped down and across lush greenlands on the border of the forest where flowers shone like stars. Then down a mountain path and into a land I knew was riddled with caverns. That's where my destination was. And he was there, of course. Waiting for me. As always. "I love you", I said, as always. He smiled. As always. "Don't be afraid", he said. "Don't ever be afraid." And the sky was dark blue and lovely, the air filled with the scent of chamomile and anise. "This is where I'll be with you", I told him, and that was that.


	4. Chapter 4

I woke up with a start to the tickle of hair in my face and I found Sherlock's body pressed against mine, curled into a tight ball and fitted tightly into the curve of mine. Must have been cold that night. On the other side, John snored softly. I checked my watch: 6:30 am. Time to get up. I untangled myself and stepped outside.

That first breath of fresh air outside the tent is a wonderful, wonderful gift. The bite of snow against your butt as you misjudge distances when peeing isn't. Ah, the perks of being a man.

 

"I don't like those clouds", I said as we hiked up the glacier.  
"There's weather coming", John agreed.  
"We need to hurry", Sherlock said.

And that, dear reader, that's where we left off. At the top of the glacier, where ice meets stone and stone meets space in an indigo sky, we found a peculiar indentation in the ice that was so fresh that it could only be the site where the sample had been taken. Well, I admit that the small tent next to it tipped us off. That, and the shovels. And the vaguely human outline just a few decimetres underneath the ice. With the storm coming in and the ice so hard, we decided to dig where we thought the head was. Sherlock thought maybe we'd be able to identify whatever it was. Whoever it was. So we dug. Ice chips flew. And sweat. I was soaked, and my arms burned with exertion. We were so close! Yet I knew what would happen if the storm would catch us here, and I rued that I hadn't called in and told the Bergwacht we were up here.  
John gave us a minute, then another, then another, then he relieved Sherlock and dug, and Sherlock announced that yes, there was weather coming, and it wasn't looking good. Almost an hour later, we had uncovered what seemed to be the chest and the hood of a padded jacket. Sherlock stooped down to have a look, almost ripping the hood off a face that stared at us with unseeing eyes, very blue, very innocent, perfect lashes, very, very blonde hair, an impression of perfect contempt on red lips, staring up at the menacing sky. A mannequin.  
"Sick bastard", John said.  
"I'd have preferred a real corpse as well" Sherlock asked, but his heart wasn't in it.  
"We really need to go now", I reminded them.  
"I think I can get that jacket", Sherlock said, and it did seem like he could, he almost ripped it on the ice, but he was able to loosen it. And then, the entire mannequin came free. I guess it was a good thing they make them so ridiculously thin. We all stared at it, at the stupid face frozen in professional disdain, and that was the moment it chose to speak.

I fell over backwards when I heard the voice. A man's voice. Sitting in the snow, far too close to the creepy figure, I heard: "Bringt mir die Schlampe. Ihr habt zwei Tage. Hospital St. Anna. Wenn nicht - aber das habt ihr inzwischen sicherlich herausgefunden. Ihr Genies."

German? Really?

"What did he say?"  
"It's obvious, John. You don't need to know German for that, really. He wants us to bring Anne here to a certain place at a certain time, or else."  
"What 'or else'?"  
"I don't quite know yet."  
I chimed in: "He said you would have figured it out by now."  
"No, I haven't. Did you recognize the voice?"  
"No, not at all. Sounds vaguely familiar, but I cannot place it."  
"I thought so." Sherlock considered that for a minute while the storm gathered force. We didn't have long now. "What did he say? Exactly?"  
"'Bring me the bitch'", I cringed, "'You have two days. Hospital St. Anna. If not - but you already figured that one out. You geniuses.' That's what he said."  
"Sounds oddly personal."  
"Anne. Sherlock." John sounded very patient, all things considered. "We need to find shelter. Now."

He was right. We needed to find shelter. The temperature would drop, visibility would approach zero, we'd quickly be lost, and the windchill would finish us off.  
"Over there", John said. I nodded - he'd seen a boulder the size of a house a couple of dozen metres below the pass where we'd be out of the wind. "Let's go."  
Again, we dug frantically, but this time, we dug snow, which was far easier. Building a wall and a platform for the bigger tent, not too deep so we wouldn't be snowed in, but deep enough to keep out of the wind. We made quick work of it, and before the snow started to fall in earnest, we had set up the tent and stored our equipment. Sherlock chose that moment to dart away again, into the storm. He was gone so fast John's shout died in his throat, and he could only shake his head, brow furrowed. I wondered if Sherlock knew how concerned John was, how anxious. How protective. He wouldn't have asked those questions last night if he'd known. John stared into the storm intently, but the falling snow and the waning light made it impossible to see anything.  
Sherlock crashed into our shelter just a minute later, but he wasn't alone.

"You're not taking that thing into the tent", John stated.  
"I am, yes. It's evidence, John", Sherlock said, carefully fitting the mannequin into the small tent with the three of us. I said earlier that this tent sleeps three in a pinch - a fourth body, and one that's basically rigid, doesn't fit at all.  
"Just until I figure it out. Won't take long."

We hung a torch from the main beam to illuminate the tent and our prime witness, who stared up at us with innocent blue eyes and stark red lips. The mechanism that had allowed it to speak was not unlike the one that makes Steiff bears growl, and it turned on every single time we moved the mannequin until John smashed it with a tent peg. The mannequin wore an uncharacteristically drab outfit, apart from the down jacket Sherlock had torn off her and had brought into he tent with him, she wore torn jeans and a fleece sweater. A clue? I mentioned it to Sherlock, who looked at me curiously and said: "Don't tell me you don't know who this is supposed to personify."  
"...no?"  
"It's you, Anne. The hair, the clothes, the jacket, the shoes - it's a rough approximation, but I'm certain. This is supposed to be you."  
"Me?" This drab creature?  
"Yes, you. Buried in a glacier. You study glaciers. You like the mountains. You come here often. This is you. Burying you in a glacier is both an act of aggression as well as an act of reverence. Honouring your work, not your personality, killing you and preserving you for posterity at the same time."  
"But, why me? I would never have come here if you hadn't brought the piece of ice."  
"Exactly. Why does he involve us?" Sherlock stapled his fingers. "The message was for you, it was in German. I'm certain he meant for you to recognize the voice. But you didn't. Anne. Think hard. Do you have any enemies?"  
"No, I don't think so."  
"Too fast. Think harder."  
I thought harder, categorizing my acquaintances and colleagues in friend and foe, and came up with - nothing. I wasn't aware of any enemies.  
"A scholar without enemies doesn't exist, Anne."  
"You're being too pessimistic", John chimed in.  
"And you're being naive", snapped Sherlock. "Don't think for a moment you don't have enemies, John."  
"Yeah? Who?"  
"Oh, lots. Doesn't matter now though."  
"Ha. I knew it."

I zoned out for a moment, ignoring the argument John and Sherlock were descending into. St. Anna. An enemy. A mannequin made to look like me. In a glacier. What hadn't I seen? "Why St. Anna? Of all places, why St. Anna?"  
Sherlock let go of John for a moment, long enough to register my question.  
"Because that's your name. Anne. Anna."  
"Yeah, but why that place? It's abandoned. It's being decommissioned at the moment. An abandoned hospital?"  
"You know the place?" John seemed glad to be out of that discussion.  
"Yes, my husband thought about investing in the corporation running the hospitals, but what happened at St. Anna discouraged him. We suspected it had been run into the ground on purpose to increase revenue, and that basically ruined the entire village. They used to have a sanatorium and hotels around it. There's not much left there any more."  
"That voice... Do you recognize the voice from there?" John asked.  
"No, but I wouldn't. My husband talked to them, not I."

  
While I racked my brain, John rummaged through the down jacket the mannequin had been wearing, and produced a neatly folded newspaper. "Sherlock. What's this?  
"Let me see. Oh. Well, that makes sense."  
"What does?"  
"John, what do you know about Cobalt-60?"  
"Well... It's an isotope used for radiotherapy. Cancer therapy."  
"I know what radiotherapy is. Go on."  
"It emits gamma and beta radiation, and the gamma is rather high energy, it requires a lot of shielding. Or distance. Distance is preferable."  
"Do you think it could be used to make a bomb?"  
"You mean, a dirty bomb? I think it could, yes. Many things could. You just stick something radioactive to a bomb. It's not hard."  
"And this is something you'd find in an abandoned hospital?"  
"No, absolutely not. Not in Switzerland. Anything radioactive is highly regulated. But in Eastern Europe or the former USSR, yes."  
"This article is about a theft of radioactive material in Azerbaijan. Cobalt-60. Neatly laminated so it would still be readable... The article, I mean. In English, not German this time. We were meant to read this, John. Curious. I wouldn't have thought..."

The wind howled outside and buffeted the little tent. We stuck our heads together over the almost-corpse of the mannequin, and in the light of the lamp above, we looked like children telling scary stories around a camp fire. Nobody spoke for a while. Then John said, softly: "Sherlock. Tell us."  
"Well", he said, "There has been a theft. And a threat. Last week. Before we left. But there are so many thefts and threats. Mycroft didn't think it had anything to do with a clump of ice, but seriously, when has trusting Mycroft's instincts ever paid off..."  
"It's his brother", John said with a smirk that told me exactly what he thought of him. "British Government."  
"But how is this connected? It can't be. Cobalt-60 stolen in Azerbaijan. Ice. Switzerland. And abandoned hospital. Anne. Us two. Sitting in a tent without even a cup of tea between us in the middle of a snow storm. God, this is ridiculous."  
"The hospital", I said, "If you were to hide a radioactive substance, where would you do that? At a place where you'd suspect radioactive substances. A hospital with a cancer ward. St. Anna has a cancer ward."  
"Yes! Maybe this isn't a trap after all, but an elaborate way to lead us to the missing Cobalt. To prevent an attack on London after all."  
"An attack on London? Sherlock!"  
"Of course, John. Why else would I mention Mycroft otherwise. Of course it's London. But I still don't see the connection..." And with that, he got up, unzipped the tent flap and threw the mannequin outside into the raging snow storm. "We can't use anyone in here who doesn't produce heat", he offered by way of explanation when he turned around and saw our no doubt aghast faces. "Do we still have some of that trail mix? I'm starving."

Once you get over the fact that you're risking your life by staying out in a snow storm, staying out in a snow storm isn't so bad. The camp site John had picked proved suitable, and we had walled in our little tent so well I wasn't worried about it collapsing any more after- well, to be honest, I worried about that the entire night. But not as much as I would have had we done a shitty job. It was still cold and miserable, and I checked the tent walls constantly. We had also been sweating a lot and had crowded into the tent without changing into dry clothes, which is a very bad idea.  
Sherlock suffered the most. He's pretty active usually, always running somewhere, fidgeting, jumping, and when you take that away, you turn off his main source of heat. John and I are different, we just fold our limbs into a sleeping bag, relax, stay very still, and we're warm. Even though Sherlock's bag was made for these temperatures, he was cold. In the end, we convinced him to wear the down jacket the mannequin had been buried in, which was too big for him, being my size, but with every other scrap of clothing he owned underneath, it fit well enough to provide an extra layer.

"He goes in the middle", John said. I nodded and thought again that if Sherlock only understood, he wouldn't have to ask stupid questions. And while Sherlock babbled on about wind chill and tent rigidity, teeth chattering from the cold, John adjusted the mats and Sherlock's hood, dragged him into an awkward embrace that technically wasn't one because we were all merely adjusting our bags on the ground, and he sacrificed his own comfort by opening his bag and wrapping an arm around Sherlock. I took the other side, huddling as close as possible. There's no shame in keeping your backpacking buddies alive. But over Sherlock's shock of black hair that spilled out of his hood, my eyes met John's, and I saw shame, and hurt, resignation, and fondness, and I fell asleep to the thought that John Watson was a complicated man.

Sometime in the early morning, the storm broke, and in the sudden (relative) silence, I dreamt of snow-shoeing on my birthday several years ago. It was a wonderful winter day, the sky was a brilliant dark blue and the sun had dogs. Firs towered overhead, and every now and then, a shower of snow crystals rained down on me, caught in my hair and tickled my face. I stood with my arms outstretched and felt the sun on my face and the sharp bite of snow. I licked the crystals off my lips and tasted salt. And then I felt his warm fingers on my cheek, brushing away hair and snow. "I love you", I said, as always. His eyes were green. They were when he was happy, and he was that day. Green like the favourite cap I wore that day. "Look carefully", he said. "Look. And don't be afraid."  
"Afraid of what?"  
He looked up at the blue sky and the firs and the snow fluttering down on us. "From this day on, we had three years, ten months, seventeen days. Do you know that?"  
Terror seized me, because I did not know he was dead in that dream.  
"Did we spend them well, Anne?"  
"Don't go", I said. "Don't go." But he was gone, and I knew it then. I woke up panting and sweating and exploded out of my sleeping bag and the tent, out into the darkness and the snow and a chilly pre-dawn sky, struggled uphill, fighting deep new snow and gravity and the extend of my loss.

Well, it was time to get up anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

"You did say I would catch you indecent", Sherlock said.  
"Go away."  
"You remind me of a client, a while back. She was stark naked as well when we first met, however, she did not rub herself down with snow. Is that a German variety of masochistic behaviour?"  
"It's rude to watch."  
"I'm not watching. I did. Briefly. But not any more. See, I turned my back on you."  
"Go away."  
"I hope you don't expect John and me to return the favour and - wash."  
"Don't worry. Men never do. I don't think men would wash at all if there wasn't some social imperative."  
"You're grumpy today."  
"I'm always grumpy."  
"What was that dream about?"  
I paused and considered throwing the clump of snow I held in hand.  
"You sneak up on me while I wash and ask me about my dreams. Timing, Sherlock."  
"Curious. That's exactly what John would say."  
My skin pink from the cold and the snow, but relatively clean now, I stepped into fresh underwear and briefly relished that feeling. New, clean, dry underwear. Wonderful. Then I started to put on the rest of my clothes, and the elation vanished.  
"John is right about many things."  
"Like what?"  
"You're the genius. Figure it out."  
"The thing with deductions, Anne, is that they always mirror the one deducing. His wants and needs. When I deduce your behaviour, I cannot help but mirror mine. How can I tell what's real, and what's merely wishful thinking? John is so close I cannot tell where he ends and I begin."  
"You stole my line."  
"I but quoted a valuable insight."  
"Why, thanks!"  
"You _are_ grumpy. Are you sure you don't want to talk about that dream?"  
"I am sure, Sherlock", I said, passing him downhill. "Come, let's have breakfast. We need to go soon."  
"It still hurts, a lot. Losing him. And losing him that way."  
"Are we talking about you or me now?"  
Sherlock paused, momentarily taken aback. "Both, I think. Have I lost John?"  
I turned to face him.  
"You're so smart, Sherlock. But it's true, you cannot see because you're so close. What do you think you lost? Can you answer that? No, I didn't think you could. You don't even know what it is you want, you cannot place it, cannot put a name on it... You just know John has it, and you want it. Unless you figure out what it is, you won't know if you lost it."  
I looked up at him, he was still uphill, an outline against the morning sky. He stood stock still, and I couldn't see his face. "Did that just come out of my mouth? Sorry, Sherlock. I make a terrible counsellor before breakfast."  
Before I could react, he flew down the incline, and for a moment I thought he'd tackle and hit me, but instead, I found myself in a very uncomfortable, very bony bear hug that was as brief as it was weird.  
"On the contrary, Anne, on the contrary", he shouted as he continued down towards camp, and I stomped down with him. I rounded the boulder just in time to see John's astonished face when Sherlock drew John into a hug that looked slightly less weird and lasted longer than mine, and I could have sworn I'd seen him close his eyes and lean in before Sherlock disengaged himself and dropped down next to the stove, pouring tea.

 

Regretfully, I left my little tent behind by the boulder. I didn't think we'd use it. We needed speed. I told myself we'd come back and pick it up, but I knew better. So I gave it one last pat and left it behind.  
"Sentiment", I heard John say to Sherlock, almost out of earshot.  
"We'll go that way, guys", I said, trying to sound more confident that I was.  
"The car is that way", Sherlock remarked.  
"We only have two days", John said, "The car is two days away. We'd never make it."  
"Ah. I see. He meant us to take the high road. The dangerous route. Especially with the new snow, I wager snow-shoeing down the other side isn't trivial."  
"No, it isn't. Not at all. I'd say he has a decent chance at killing us by avalanche."  
"But we have no choice, you say."  
"You looked at the maps, Sherlock. You know she's right."  
"Are you two siding against me now, John? Ah. Cherchez la femme, eh?"  
"You only noticing that now, huh? Thought you much smarter", John laughed, shouldered his backpack, and took the lead.

Yes, it was probably dangerous. But also so much fun, and in the end, nothing bad happened, nothing at all. The snow the storm had left behind was fluffy and deep, and with no regard for boulders and small trees, we leaned back on the shoes and slid down the slope on snowshoes, glissading as much as we could. Sherlock put us both to shame. I wasn't great at glissading, and I could tell John had learned it at some point, but Sherlock had never stood on snowshoes until we arrived in Switzerland, and after a few failed attempts, he managed to glide down the slope effortlessly and gracefully, as though he'd never done anything else. "Show-off", John muttered fondly and tried to catch up. I took up the rear and made up for lack of grace with brute force and enthusiasm. The air was cold and still, the sky had turned a brilliant blue, and the snow was wonderful. It could have been any other day in the mountains.  
The slope turned to forest, and eventually, we found a forest road that lead down the mountain. And then, finally, we saw St. Anna down in the valley.  
Resting on our poles, catching out breath, we looked down the village and the hospital. It was difficult to make out anything, and nobody had brought binos. But I didn't see any movement to speak of, and I suspected it was just as derelict as I had last seen it.  
"Daylight's fading. It's too far to get down there today", John said.  
"I like to be on time, but not too early", Sherlock replied. "We have until tomorrow. Let's take a rest and make a proper plan."

 

We set up tent in a shallow depression underneath tall pines. Or rather, John and I did while Sherlock, as per some unspoken agreement, stalked off and did a sweep of the area, swift like a pine marten, while John and I toiled. "Like a bloody marten", John laughed when I shared my thoughts with him. "I guess it fits. What does that make us?"  
I pondered that question and watched him tie the guy-lines, all spiky hair above a compact body. "A hedgehog and a tired old ewe", I told him.  
"Who's the hedgehog?"  
"Well, you're no ewe."  
"You're neither old nor tired."  
"I sure am today", I told him, stretching, hands on my lower back. "What's your opinion on black beans with rice?"  
"Filling", John said, his eyes on the forest that had swallowed Sherlock.  
"Don't worry, he'll be fine."  
John turned to me as if shocked I'd seen. "I always worry about him. He has no regard for his own safety."  
I busied myself with the stove and piled fresh snow inside to melt.  
"He has no regard for my safety, either", John added. "Actually, he has no regard for anything. Apart from cases, thrills, and danger in general. And heroine, I guess."  
"He holds you in very high regard", I interjected, but John had gone off on a tangent.  
"He just dashes off and finds his thrill and almost gets killed and expects me to clean up after him. What kind of life is that?"  
"Why don't you leave?"  
When John didn't answer right away, I looked up from the pot and saw him look at me, wide-eyed shock and hurt. I offered no out, held his gaze, and kept stirring. Sometimes it's better to not say anything.  
"I... uh." He straightened his back, turned around, and stormed off into the forest. Great, I thought. Now I'd lost both my travel companions. For an instant, I contemplated cooking just one portion of rice and beans. Just for a moment. You cannot blame me for that.

  
"That went well", came a remark from behind me.  
"How long have you been watching us?"  
"Oh, maybe half an hour or so", Sherlock said lightly and sat down opposite the stove. "And I do have a high regard for John's safety. Speaking of which, what's that, beetles and maggots?"  
"Rice and beans."  
"Close."  
"It's not done yet."  
"Will it look any more appetizing when it's done?"  
"No."  
John reappeared when darkness had fallen and just before I would have gone looking for him. He returned to camp calm and composed and accepted his bowl of rice and beans with a smile that turned almost imperceptibly wooden when I offered a low "Sorry" with the food.

Making a plan was quick, given the fact we didn't know much about the situation down in the valley. We had no choice but to hike down and into the derelict hospital, hoping to find an open door, but certain our quarry had made sure we had access. John had a gun, Sherlock said he had come armed only with his sharp wit, a quip John ungraciously ignored. John opted for calling Sherlock's brother as soon as we were down the valley, which Sherlock only commented with a snort. We'd have to play by ear, I guessed, not exactly reassured, wishing I'd left a note or called the Bergwacht. I realized I'd been drawn into this game by Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, a doctor and a chemist, regular folk who happened to be good at solving crimes, and not a duo of superheroes. I didn't sleep much that night, but when I slept, I heard that voice, that rude text in German, and wondered where I had heard. I dreamt that I remembered when it was time to get up.


	6. Chapter 6

St. Anna was deserted that morning. We hiked into the snow-logged town like a band of smugglers, torn and dirty and wary of any movement. There wasn't any, and no sound apart from our footsteps. The snow around the boarded-up hospital was clean and undisturbed, as if nobody had come here this winter. The town with its single abandoned deli and its derelict homes huddled in the shadow of the mountains as if trying to stay warm and failing. Not even the ubiquitous choughs that usually littered the Alpine skies had found their way here.  
I noticed I had stopped in my tracks when the men turned to look where I'd gone. Frozen by the unreality of the place. Such a place shouldn't exist, with its pristine snow and lovely slopes and picturesque homes that only needed a bit of paint and a roof repair job to house happy families and tourists and cafes. This lot was too valuable to go to ruin like that. What had happened? The place felt wrong. It felt like it would take much more than an investor and a bucket of paint to exorcise this town.

The hospital loomed over us, blotting out the sun. I didn't want to go there.

"Can you do this?" Sherlock asked. It wasn't an accusation, just a simple question. With great effort, I swallowed premonitions and fear and nodded. "Then let's."

The front door opened easily. Impossibly, the quiet deepened inside the hospital, the stale silence of a place that resented being abandoned. We left our backpacks in the hall, reluctantly, as though something might come and take them away. There it was, a vast hall with its booths for sorting and billing patients, the benches and the posting boards for safety information, all so neat and tidy but covered in the grime of years of disuse. A balcony lined the hall and hinted at the hallways beyond, lost in darkness for now.  
The light dimmed, the front door squeaked, and I ducked instinctively before realizing John had closed the door behind us. "Sorry", he whispered. That simple sound carried a cringe-worthy distance.  
Then, something extraordinary happened, something that pushed me to my knees and made me cover my ears: Sherlock shouted a hollering "We're here! Come out!" that must reverberated in every single booth and room and floor. And nothing happened. Then, something happened: With a thunk, the lights came on overhead, and in the corner, an abandoned soda vending machine flickered and started buzzing.  
"Ah", Sherlock whispered, "That did the trick. This way", he said, and darted off down the only hall that was actually lit. "Such a cheap effect", he muttered. "Obvious."  
I picked my palpitating heart off the floor and followed.

Down and down we went, following the light. We quickly lost all daylight, descending into the depths of the hospital, taking stairs that looked like nobody had walked here for years. The sharp smell of hospital and antiseptic that still lingered finally gave way to a musty cellar smell with a whiff of rat, and I strained my eyes for the comforting swish of a naked tail in the corner. But not even that broke the gloom.  
"Nuclear medicine department", John commented, translating a sign that spelled the same in German and French. Sherlock nodded. The light led us on into the very bowels of the building. John took the lead, gun in hand. The walls, I noticed, were covered with posters depicting scientific endeavours, conference posters and submissions, still pristine underneath the dust and mould. It used to be a good place, I thought when we passed a patient waiting room that had once been painted a bright sunny yellow and forest green. The padded blue chairs had their stuffing sticking out in places, and the smell of rat was very strong here. And then, down another, smaller staircase, we ended up in a bulbous, thick-walled bunker-like room that housed a vaguely familiar machine the size of a truck, and was obviously a dead end.

Sherlock noticed first and darted ahead, but he wasn't fast enough. A tall, dark figure crashed into John, sending him and his gun flying, tackling him so hard the air went out of John with a whoosh as he hit the wall. The next instant, Sherlock was hit with a slender rod and went down as if he'd been struck with a hammer, and while I rushed in to help, I finally, finally remembered, in that final moment. Rage flashed up, and instead of running to help, I now accelerated towards that figure like a charging bull, head down, no doubt snarling, rushing him, and through the red rage and my own roar there came one name: Mergenström. I tackled him, knocking him to the ground with brute force, hitting to break bones and ribs and pierce lungs, my hands scrabbling for his throat and squeezing, all conscious thought dissolving in a roar of rage as pain exploded in my chest and travelled through every nerve, white hot and searing. Electroshock, I knew, which just made me angrier, and I came at him again, to grab and tear and dislocate and drink hot blood right from his throat. The searing pain came again, and again, and that was it.

 

"Stupid bitch. She's such a stupid bitch. Always has been. Look at her. Not worth the hassle." Mergenström addressed my friends, spoke English for their benefit. I lay on my belly, his knee on my back while he pinned me down and roughly tied my hands. Shoved my face into the dust on the floor. I smelled rust and mold and realized I lay inside a puddle of saliva and blood, limp and hurting so much I couldn't even groan. Mergenström dragged me to the wall next to the shining metal thing in the middle of the room and propped me up next to a similarly immobilized John. Through the bloodied curtain of my matted hair, I saw John glance at me. I blinked, too hurt to speak, my head hanging limply, and I guess I still drooled.  
"Mergenström", I heard Sherlock's voice. "Mergenström... Where did I come across your name before?"  
I gasped, spitting blood, but I couldn't speak yet. I must have bitten my tongue when shocked.  
"You pretend you forgot. I don't believe you for a second. You're the great Sherlock Holmes. You don't forget."  
"Mergenström... No, sorry. Doesn't ring a bell. John, do you recall this fellow?"  
"You're the genius, Sherlock. If you don't, how could I?"  
In my peripheral vision, I saw Mergenström pace in front of John and Sherlock. "Oh, but that's not it!" he said. "The fact that you're here proves you received my message. You know what I have. You know what I will do."  
"The Cobalt", John said.  
"The Cobalt", Mergenström gloated. "A classic. A dirty bomb in the middle of London, and no-one will be the wiser until people start dying. A terrorist attack that doesn't kill anyone at first. A failed attack. Amateurs, they will think. They will be wrong until it's too late."  
"Impressive", Sherlock said, "Where did you get the Cobalt?"  
"I told you!" From where I slumped against the wall, I could see the spittle flying as Mergenström walked up and down. "I bought it! Had it stolen in Azerbaijan!"  
"Ah, I remember. That was the Cobalt stolen from a transport."  
"Exactly! Thirty kilos!"

Sherlock laughed. It started as a snort, then resolved into a chuckle, then he threw his head back and laughed and laughed and laughed. And that, I have to admit, was the scariest thing I had experienced all day.  
"No", he said, suddenly deadly serious, "What you do not know, Dr. Mergenström, is that I have excellent connections to the British government and a mobile phone with outstanding reception. Meaning I know for a fact that all thirty kilos of Cobalt have been found two days ago. The thieves succumbed to radiation poisoning, unfortunately, but not fast enough - they told the officials they didn't even know what they had stolen, just that it was valuable. Apart from that, you have never been to Great Britain, nor have you contacts in Great Britain. You did, however, spend an insane amount of time researching dirty bombs. Far more than such a simple, simple thing could possibily warrant." Next to me, John snickered.  
"So, all there is left for me to ask, Dr. Mergenström, is this: Would you like to change your story? This is your chance to come up with something spectacular. It'll be on Dr. Watson's blog."

Throughout this exchange, Mergenström had turned quite still, almost sullen, had stopped pacing, had finally come to a halt in front of me. I refused to lift my head, stared straight at his feet. He grabbed my chin and lifted it roughly. This was the man that had broken into my house, forged letters from my late husband, and had tried to force me into a relationship with him. And I hadn't even been able to recall what his voice sounded like. I only knew he was tall, conventionally handsome, quiet, a decent scientist, always somewhere in the back, and supremely uninteresting. Around the fist squeezing my jaw and my swelling tongue, I said: "Fuck off" with great difficulty. "F" sounds are hard when your tongue doesn't quite work. He got the gist though. He dropped my jaw as if stung, and slapped me.  
"Well", he said, "My ruse surely was interesting enough to lure you here. All of you. My pathetic, faithless colleague who's still pining after a man long dead and gone. And not even a very good man. I knew him, you see. He was weak. He took the coward's way out."  
I did lift my head then, peering through a curtain of matted hair and blood at the man who insulted my dead husband. The cable tie dug into my wrists painfully as I strained to break them, strained to get up and head-butt that bastard parading in front of us, spouting lies.  
"Don't", breathed John. I noticed I was snarling, red rage welling up. "Shsh", John said. "Don't. I know. Don't."

"This", announced Mergenström, "This is my revenge. You, Anne, you tortured me. Night after night after night I watched over you, and what did you do? You changed the locks. You changed the locks! What were you thinking! Nothing, I thought. Nothing. I know who put that idea inside your pretty little head. This detective and his gay lover. Doctor Watson. You know what, I thought you were taller. But you're just a pathetic bunch of degenerate British."  
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Sherlock's smile, genuine mirth on his features, and I wondered what I had missed.  
"Are you quite finished?" Sherlock enquired, all British degenerate. "Because if so, let me tell you a thing or two about yourself. You, Dr. Mergenström. You might think you're a brilliant scientist, but the truth is you never published more than two papers because you're lazy. How do I know that, you might ask? Well, you did put on quite a show for us, but that is all there is, just show, nothing more. Had you actually bought the Cobalt, had you actually built that bomb, you might have impressed me. But you're too lazy and too sloppy to set up something as obnoxiously simple as a dirty bomb, and seriously, that's terrorist 101. Did you ever travel to Azerbaijan? No? Didn't think so.  
"You never made senior scientist, and you never will. Well, you obviously won't now anyway because you'll end up in jail, but even without that little detail, you'd never make the cut. And Anne - how can you seriously pretend you love someone you just slapped and shocked thrice. You're a mean, petty little man hopelessly in love with nothing but your perceived brilliance, and your towering height doesn't do anything for that. You're a narcissistic person, and you want to adorn yourself with true brilliance, which, if you cannot have it, you'll destroy because it'll always outshine you. Which is what you'll do now. So, can we please stop monologuing and get on with the destruction? You don't have all day, you know. You might not know it, but you have an escape vehicle of some sort to catch and a new identity to assume. Gosh, no. Don't tell me you didn't organize a new identity for yourself? Seriously?"

At this point, Sherlock did look truly aghast for the first time during this entire endeavour. He leaned forward and asked with obvious disbelief: "Just what kind of villain are you?"

Impassive and silent like a scolded child under Sherlock's monologue, Mergenström jumped into action now. "The kind that kills you", he said, flipped a switch on the huge machine in the room, and turned to me once more: "I don't love you any more."  
"And that's a lie", Sherlock said lightly, and I managed a feat I never thought I would: I spat a glob of blood and mucus on Mergenström's leg.  
"Good thinking, Anne, depositing evidence on his leg", Sherlock said, his voice bursting with approval. I thought I'd rather not tell him that this hadn't exactly been my intention.  
Mergenström gave the machine one more pat, and a giant sliding door slid shut. Overhead, a cooling device started whirring. "You might wonder what this is", he said, "But I won't tell you."  
"You don't have to", John said. "I'm a medical professional, you know."  
"Oh. Right."  
My tongue very big in my mouth, I managed: "I know too."  
"Anyone here not certain what this is?"  
"I'm not totally clear on why you've started a run", Sherlock said, truly puzzled.  
"It's a cyclotron", Mergenström explained.  
"Yes. So?"  
"It produces high energy protons and irradiates a target, which then turns radioactive in response. Thus, radioactive substances for medical purposes are generated. A side effect is that it will flood this room with radioactivity and turn you radioactive under a bombardment of protons. You'll survive, for a while, only to die a horrible death. You'll start bleeding from every orifice you have, and some you'll acquire. You'll lose your hair and your intestinal lining. You'll dissolve while still alive. There'll be nothing you can do. And you'll think of me the entire time. Of the life we could have had, Anne. Of what you threw away."  
"Oh", Sherlock smiled, "That's actually quite ingenious in an evil, messy way. Get on with it then."

Mergenström looked back at the three of us as if he'd missed something, and I suppose what he saw was a hateful stare from me, promising a short, messy death by evisceration, John's small, angry smile, and Sherlock's good-natured smirk that promised a fate much worse than what I had in mind, probably something like death by irrelevance. He looked at us far too long before he turned and slid through the closing outer door of the concrete bunker. Had he not tried to catch one last glance at me, he would have seen the Swiss police that descended on him like a team of rugby players. His astonished expression as he lay pinned to the ground was the last thing I saw as the outer bunker door closed with a final-sounding thunk.


	7. Chapter 7

There we sat, our backs against the concrete wall, bound and trussed for slaughter. If we had expected the door to open soon, Sherlock destroyed that hope thoroughly. "It's an interlock", he said. "They won't be able to open it until the cyclotron run is through."  
"We can't stay in here", John stated the obvious, still very calm. "The radiation will kill us."  
"That remains to be seen", Sherlock mused, his gaze catching mine in an unspoken question. And then I recalled why I wasn't afraid at all.

 

Transported by pain and shock, I had flown across that sea and beyond that sky and come upon a volcanic island, soaring above rainforest and descending down flowering meadows dotted with nesting birds and other things my eyes wouldn't hold. The scent of anise and sea was very strong and carried me towards the caves, where he waited, as always. I sat down next to him, his presence solid and warm, the scent of warm skin mingling with anise and chamomile and the sea below. Impossibly far and impossibly close, gulls cried and other things, and the thing in the floor that wasn't quite there and had more dimensions to it than I could discern and which would make me insane and take my soul disappeared into the void I wasn't supposed to know was there. "I love you", I said, as always.  
"Look carefully", he said. "Remember. I love you. Look carefully."  
And with that, I was back in the room, a bunker, surrounded by technicians, the open door at my back, the familiar grey and green and concrete in front of me and a professor beside me in a bespoke suit underneath a well-fitting lab coat, speaking to me of the merits of his brand new system. Opening the door. Closing the door. Drifting off into techno-babble on multiple runs at once and safety features favoured over energy.  
And I had understood. Pain had seeped into my consciousness, then seared through my nerves, and he had looked at me without pity because pity had no reason to exist here, but with love, because that would always be there. I had woken up to being compared to a female dog, wondering why that was a bad thing.

 

"Yes", I said. "That remains to be seen."  
John's eyes darted from one to the other, and I didn't envy him then, caught with a genius with very little social skills all the time.  
"At least the company leaves nothing to be desired", Sherlock said.  
"Well. I guess I always knew I'd die a violent death if I stay with you."  
They were silent for a while. Then Sherlock spoke: "You know, of all violent deaths, I'd choose one with you over all the ones without you."  
"This death won't be violent. It'll be messy and bloody and slow."  
"Right. How unappealing."  
"We could make it short and violent. If we get out and I find my gun."  
"John Hamish Watson, are you proposing murder-suicide? Ever the romantic."  
"I'd shoot you first. Promise."  
They laughed at that.

 

Silence fell, and for a long moment, there was nothing but the whine of the cyclotron. And a faint thumping on the other side of the bunker door, indicating someone was, indeed, working on our rescue.  
"Well then", Sherlock said and stood up in one fluid motion, stripping the cable tie off his wrists. "Let's see if we can make this wait more interesting."  
"The wait? Why is everyone so calm but me? What - Hey, how did you get rid of-" John started, but Sherlock had knelt down in front of him, locking eyes with him, undoing John's belt with one practised motion. John tried to scramble back and away, but his hands tied behind his back, his back against the wall, there was really nothing he could do but protest. He kicked ineffectively when Sherlock whipped the belt off him. "Sherlock! What-"  
"Relax, John. I needed a tool. Now turn over."  
"What? No!"  
"Suit yourself. Anne, you first."  
I did so, and he fiddled with my ties, trying to pry them open, scolding John: "I wonder why you always make this about your perceived sexuality. John, that's something you should have discussed with your therapist. Not everything I do is-"  
"Why didn't you use your own belt, you wanker?"  
"See, that's exactly what I mean. Always sexuality. I do not wear a belt. And if I would-" and with that he managed to depress the tie's tongue and wriggled it off my wrists - "it certainly wouldn't sport one of these enormously exaggerated steel pins. I know full well you have no need to compensate, so why-"  
"Don't", growled John, and Sherlock, having perfected his technique, freed him within seconds. Another second, and John was at the door, frantically scrabbling for an opening.  
"Do we tell him?" I asked. Sherlock contemplated, then nodded.  
"Tell me what? Sherlock-"  
"John. John, leave the door. Come over here. Sit down."  
"Sit down? We have to get out of here!"  
"We will. John. Please. Calm down. You hurt your head. Sit down."  
Sherlock was right, I saw. Mergenström had pushed him into the wall, and John had hit it unprepared, hitting his head, hard. The blood had since dried. And I hadn't even noticed.  
"Sit down", Sherlock said, as if talking to a skittish dog, "Right here. On my jacket. That's better. Anne will explain, you will relax, and I will look at your head."  
He did sit down then. And while Sherlock took John's head between his hands and probed the head wound, I told him what I knew, enunciating very carefully around my swollen tongue.  
"It's self-shielded", I explained. "The cyclotron. The door is shut. It wouldn't run otherwise."  
"Shielded?"  
"Yes. Covered in almost a meter of concrete. Doesn't keep everything in. But the worst." I held out my hand to Sherlock. "He has a dosimeter in his pocket. I can show you."  
"And here I thought he was happy to see me", John said, voice strangled.  
"I'm always happy to see you", Sherlock retorted and handed me the old-fashioned gas dosimeter I had rightly suspected he had pocketed. I held it up to the lights overhead and did a quick calculation.  
"No worse than a transatlantic flight."  
"Let me see."  
I handed him the dosimeter. And then, the tension went from his shoulders, he slumped forward, and I suspected the head wound was worse than I had thought. But he just caught Sherlock's shirt in his fist and pushed his brow against Sherlock's chest.  
"Thank you", John said. "God. Thank you."  
Put your arm around him, you idiot, I thought. But Sherlock just looked down at John's head with an expression so raw I wished I hadn't seen it.  
"What for", Sherlock asked.  
"For not making me say anything stupid. Life and death situation. Adrenaline, you know."  
"What good would that have done, hm."

And with that, Sherlock very gently pushed John back against the wall, cushioning his head with his wadded-up scarf. "Anne, how long does it take for the run to finish and the doors to open?"  
"About four hours."  
"Four hours, caught in a bunker with a running cyclotron. Well. I guess there's absolutely nothing to do. Did anyone bring cards? Dice? A magazine?"  
That did give me pause, and I caught the fleeting look of panic on John's face - neither of us wanted to be caught in a bunker for four hours with a very bored Sherlock.  
"I didn't think so. Well, this is just wonderful. Anne has bit her tongue, John has hit his head. This is going to be the worst four hours of my life. And seriously, that was the worst villain I've ever encountered"  
"Sorry", I managed.  
"Nah, don't be. I should have seen this coming. Should have known he'd be offended. But seriously. Faking a terrorist attack. Not even faking it, but pretending to fake an attack. Monologuing forever. Trying to kill us using a shielded cyclotron. By the way, how did you know, Anne? Ah, of course, your husband used to work for the company that builds them. I knew that. I'll just spend those four hours deducing everything about you two. But you can't even tell me if I'm right, can you. No. Not sure if four hours will be enough, John, I haven't even started deducing your jumpers, and the one you're wearing alone could lead to hours of..."  
By that point, of course, John had already fallen asleep, adrenalin and his head and nights spent outside catching up with him. Sherlock had tugged his head around so that it lay against Sherlock's shoulder, and he kept talking to him or to himself or to nobody really, softly, his lips almost touching John's hair. I drifted off, slumped against the wall, lulled into sleep by Sherlock's low monologue.

 

John and I woke up when the run ended, the whine stopped, and the door opened with a sigh that made our ears pop. Sherlock gently dragged John to his feet, I followed, and we emerged into the corridor where Swiss police and first responders waited for us. After a brief examination at yet another hospital (that one bright and friendly and clean and lovely), we were declared roughed up but healthy, treated for our scrapes and bruises, dismissed, and then taken to the police station for a report. Mergenström, we learned, was in custody and about to be transferred to Germany.  
It was late at night when we were escorted to a hotel filled to the brim with skiers and the rich or famous enough to ski in Switzerland, and I couldn't really appreciate anything but the shower, the wonderfully soft mattress, and the clean, white duvet before I slept. I didn't dream.


	8. Chapter 8

When in Switzerland, Sherlock decided, and with John and I tired and hurt, we simply stayed another night, spending the day skiing and lounging on the sunny terrace with local food and good coffee. That is, John and I did - Sherlock went off somewhere else and did whatever he did while mere mortals like us tumbled head-first into snowdrifts and warmed up with coffee and strudel.  
"Don't worry", I told John over coffee, "He'll be fine."  
"I know", he said, but I didn't buy it. We sat for a while and watched the kids fall on their bums on the nursery slope until he started: "Anne..."  
"Yeah?"  
"I don't know how you do it. Coming back from something like that." I didn't have to be Sherlock to understand what he referred to.  
"I don't know either", I said lightly. "I haven't come back so far."  
"But he's here, he's actually here, and I still can't-" He stopped and stared intently into his mug.  
"It takes courage. I guess. I haven't found that much courage yet. To love something that's, well..."  
"Mortal?"  
"Yeah. I always knew that. But I didn't _know_."  
"I find it difficult."  
"I think it is difficult. That's why most people ignore it. But, the way I see it, you have a unique chance. One I'd kill and die for. Don't tell Sherlock that", I added quickly.  
He thought about that and then grinned, changing the topic: "I counted at least twelve _chances_ for you on the slope and on this terrace."  
I laughed at that. "John Watson, you're a very bad liar." And with that, I threw my gloves at him and ordered another round of tea and coffee.

I returned to the hotel room to find a small army of people waiting for me, a hairdresser with her assistant, a make-up artist, and someone with a large bag. A card from Sherlock lay on my desk with only a time (7:30) and a place (bar). Did we have a date? I was confused. And intimidated by people wanting to do _things_ to my hair and my face. But the hairdresser and the make-up artist were nice and understanding and urged me very kindly to let them work, and two hours later, I emerged from my bathroom wrapped in a fluffy robe, my formerly matted hair clean and glossy, and my bruises almost gone underneath a thin layer of make-up. Make-up... something I hadn't worn for a long, long time. But the contents of the bag were what really astonished me. Sherlock had bought me a tan cashmere shift dress, complemented by a silk underskirt, stockings and high leather boots. I did cry then. Not even my husband had known me well enough to successfully buy me a dress. Of course, it fit perfectly. He'd seen me indecent after all.

John and Sherlock waited for me at a table set for three. And it was lovely. We laughed and dug into our food with abandon, finally sharing a bottle of excellent wine. Sherlock wore a suit that looked bespoke and a shirt that looked half a size too small and stunning on him. John wore his usual jumper and jeans and a smile exclusively for Sherlock. The bar filled with people and laughter, après-ski in full swing. Eventually, I went up to fetch a round of drinks, and I thought I saw Sherlock wave, but then, the bartender set a Mojito in front of me. Just one. And then one more for the person next to me. I started to protest, but the bartender vanished, and the person next to me said: "Well. I take it your friends have things to discuss."  
When I finally looked, I couldn't help but grin. The first sentence Sherlock had spoken when we'd met had been "What is your percentage?" alluding to my research on Neandertals and ice age flora and fauna and my secret geeky pride in my ice age genes, and here was one who surely had an even higher percentage and showed. Taller than I, but strong and stocky, barrel-chested, in his forties, greying red beard and too-prominent nose and greying red hair, green eyes and very white teeth flashing in a dazzling smile.  
"Hi", I managed, and he laughed, extended his hand to shake mine, and suddenly, I knew I had been played. The bastard. Glancing back at the table, I saw John and Sherlock, so close they almost touched, their knees under the table definitely touching. John playing with a tiny pile of salt on the table cloth, drawing circles around Sherlock's long hands, not quite touching, but never far. Looking at the exotic creature at his table with a sidelong glance that was probably meant to be casual but made my heart drop, and I wasn't even on the receiving end. Sherlock felt my gaze and looked over, and I mouthed "Thank you" before turning to face my very own Neandertal, brought to you by Sherlock Holmes.  
He turned out to be Norwegian and a chemistry professor on a trip with his friends to celebrate his divorce, he was bright and nice and funny and thought I was as well, which I thought an enormous misconception (but a flattering one). Nothing at all happened that night, but we talked and there were puppy eyes and stars and a warm fuzzy feeling that only partly originated from more drinks and good talk. When we parted with a semi-serious promise to call, John and Sherlock had left, it was late, and I was still bruised and tired, but I felt for the first time _since_ that maybe, I could come back after all.


End file.
